One day Falkenberg declares he is all right again now. Going to save up
and put aside a hundred Kroner this winter, out of tuning pianos and
felling trees, and then make up again with Emma. I, too, he suggests,
would be better advised to give over sighing for ladies of high degree,
and go back to my own rank and station.

Falkenberg was right.

On Saturday evening we stopped work a trifle earlier than usual to go up
and get some things from the store. We wanted shirts, tobacco and wine.

While we were in the store I caught sight of a little work-box, ornamented
with shells, of the kind seafaring men used to buy in the old days at
Amsterdam, and bring home to their girls; now the Germans make them by the
thousand. I bought the workbox, with the idea of taking out one of the
shells to serve as a thumbnail for my pipe.

"What d'you want with a workbox?" asked Falkenberg. "Is it for Emma,
what?" He grew jealous at the thought, and not to be outdone, he bought a
silk handkerchief to give her himself.

On the way back we sampled the wine, and got talking. Falkenberg was still
jealous, so I took out the workbox, chose the shell I wanted, and picked
it off and gave him the box. After that we were friends again.

It was getting dark now, and there was no moon. Suddenly we heard the
sound of a concertina from a house up on a hillside; we could see there
was dancing within, from the way the light came and went like a lighthouse
beam.